


Lookin' Out For You

by HardGarbage



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Actual Dad Gabriel Reyes, Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Limbs, Major Character Injury, Underage Drinking, idk how old jesse is in this but he might be underage, my poor angsty little cowboy son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:27:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8003734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardGarbage/pseuds/HardGarbage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That <em>cooool</em> breeze feels real good on m’ <em>stump</em>.” </p>
<p>Or:</p>
<p>Actual Dad Gabriel Reyes tries to confront his tiny, drunk, cowboy son after he loses his arm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lookin' Out For You

**Author's Note:**

> So this came about almost entirely because of [this](http://hardgarbage.tumblr.com/post/150043815233/iron-rion-beer-thief) work of art by [iron-rion](http://iron-rion.tumblr.com) ([this](http://hardgarbage.tumblr.com/post/150197312293/lewdrobots-gunnslaughter-slides-you-a) one by [gunnslaughter](http://gunnslaughter.tumblr.com) had something to do with it too tho).
> 
> I hope you like it!

“That _cooool_ breeze feels real good on m’ _stump_.”

Gabe had been looking for Jesse for an hour. The stupid son of a bitch had slipped out of the med bay sometime before 0200 (nevermind why Gabe was checking the med bay at 0200) and so Gabe had gone out looking for him. And _this_ is how he found him. Propped up against an open fridge, surrounded by seven or eight empty bear cans (though the slur in Jesse’s voice prompted the thought that there might be more than just beer at play here) and the tight bandage around what remains of Jesse’s left arm standing stark in the warm light from the fridge. The boy is obviously trashed.

Jesse’s chuckle is sly and sour as his eyes shift over and down to where what’s left of his arm waggles in the air. “Bit like one-a those dog tails, innit?”

“Jesse.”

“The one’s wha’ they cut’m off when th’ real young.”

“Jesse.”

“Looks like they got a turd always comin’ out their ass.”

“ _Jesse_.” _ **  
**_

Jesse looks up at him, real calm and lazy, eyes half-lidded and that sly smile creeping over his face. “Hm?”

Gabe just sighs. “What are you doin’ here kid? I’m pretty sure drinkin’ all my booze wasn’t part of Angela’s post-op regimen.”

Jesse’s eyes open a little wider at that, holding the can in front of his face. “This’s yers? Shoot. I figgered it was Friedrickson’s and he owes me a lil somethin’ so—” he takes another long swig before setting the empty can on the ground “—I wunnit too worried ‘bout it. Sorry _jefe_. S’pose you can dock it from my pay, ain’t no harm ‘n that.” Now that his hand is empty he doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, with himself. For a moment, he fidgets at his shirt pocket, where a single cigarette pokes out next to the bump of a lighter. He reaches for it, grits his teeth and hisses through them before dropping his hand again. He slouches against the fridge, drapes his good arm over his propped up knee, and locks his gaze somewhere around Gabe’s boots. The sly smile is gone.

Gabe sighs again, and then crouches suddenly between Jesse’s knees. Jesse knocks his head against the fridge as he scuttles back, expression suddenly knotted in worry. Gabe reaches out, Jesse flinches, but Gabe just catches his eye and holds his gaze, then snatches the cigarette out of Jesse’s pocket and holds it up to Jesse’s mouth. Safely ensconced, Gabe then digs around in Jesse’s front pocket, snags the lighter, flicks it lit and holds the flame to the end of the cigarette. Jesse stares at him, and it takes him longer that it ought to to suck in a breath and light the thing. He takes a long drag as Gabe drops the lighter back into his pocket, then reaches a shaky hand up to pull the cigarette from his mouth and blow smoke toward the ceiling. 

Gabe settles back on his heels, catches sight of the dark red pooling at the end of Jesse’s bandages. “You’re bleedin’ again there, kid,” he says softly. Perhaps more softly than he had intended.

“Mmm.” Jesse hums, blowing another billow of smoke. “Yeah. It does tha’.”

“Drinkin’s probably not helpin’ you there.”

“Reckon ’s prob’ly not.”

Gabe shakes his head, crosses his arms over his knees, looks again at the place where Jesse’s arm ends in a block of white bandage and blood. “So,” he says, again more gently than he thought he would, “you just gonna sit here feelin’ sorry for yourself, is that it.”

Jesse scoffs, huffing smoke out his nose. “Eat a dick, Gabi.”

“Look,” Gabe shoots, heat rising unbidden, “I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I know what it’s like to lose a limb like that—” Jesse flinches again, pales, looks pointedly away from what’s left of his arm, from Gabe “—but I’ve lost plenty, and I know—”

“I don’. Give. A _shit_.” Jesse’s glare is sudden and ferocious, his growl unexpectedly harsh despite the slurring. Gabe’s eyes are wide. “Wha’ _you_ lost, Reyes. Furgive me if I jus’ don’ rightly care. Cuz I lost m’ _arm_ , ‘s what I lost.” He taps ash carelessly onto his pants, where an ember glows dimly for a moment before dying. He drops his gaze to the floor. “I lost m’ **_arm_.** ” Gabe can just about hear the grinding of Jesse’s teeth.

“Yeah. You did, _mijo_. You did.”

A hot, angry, tear slips down Jesse’s face. Neither of them say anything about it, but when Jesse speaks they can both hear the waver of his voice. “I c’n still _feel_ it, Reyes. Phant’m limb ‘n all that.” He waves his stump around, Gabe can practically see how the motion pulls at the stitches beneath the bandage, can certainly see how Jesse’s shoulder shakes with the pain of it. “‘N all it does is _hurt_.” This time, his voice cracks. Another tear, and another. The butt of his cigarette starts to dampen. “Only got a _memory_ left’a my arm, ‘n it‘s jus’ _hurt_.”

Gabe sighs. “I’m sorry, _mijo_.”

“ _I ain’t yer damn **kid**!” _ Again, the anger is sudden, harsh. They lock eyes. “I’m yer _soldier_ ‘n I lost m’ g’damn _arm_ out here ‘n this _hellhole_.” He goes to fling out his left arm, a motion of exasperation he’s forgotten he can no longer make, then growls, doubles over, clutches at the bandages and curses into his lap.

For a moment there’s just pained breathing and the hum of the refrigerator. Gabe’s gone from crouching to kneeling, his hand outstretched nearly to Jesse’s shoulder but hesitating. Can’t bring himself to close the distance.

Then, whispered in some combination of rage and grief, he says, “N’ it don’ matter a fuckin’ _lick_.” Gabe starts. His hand drops to his lap. Jesse looks up just enough for Gabe to see his tear-streaked face behind his hair, though his eyes are fixed on the floor. “I mighta lost my arm er m’ head er m’ ass any ol’ g’damn place n’ it wouldnta mattered none. Same shit. Same fuckin’ shit. Lose wutcha got: fuck off about it.” He takes a hefty drag from his damp cigarette but then coughs and curses numbly while the cigarette falls out of his mouth and onto the floor. He makes no move to retrieve it.

“It jus’ don’ matter.” He opens his mouth as though to say more, then just shakes his head before tilting backwards, thumping his head against the fridge and closing his eyes.

For a while, neither of them speak.

“Kid—” Gabe hesitates. “—Jesse—” Jesse makes no indication that he’s heard Gabe at all. He’s still clutching the end of his arm, the patch of blood blooming outward. He’s shaking.

Gabe’s good at thinking of the practical. Gotta get this kid to bed, some water, a new bandage, more pain meds if they can manage with all the alcohol he’s got in his system. Make plans for the prosthetic, tweak the budget, talk options with Angela, maybe barter resources with Jack. He’s gotta adjust some upcoming ops to account for Jesse’s absence, get an estimation of when Jesse’ll be back up and running, find things for the kid to do in the meantime. He can do all that. No problem.

Not _this_. Not a goddamn _kid_ drinking and crying and angry because he lost his _arm_. His goddamn _arm_. Not a kid suffering because he went from frying pan to fire, a kid Gabe took in to _protect_ , only to fail him on such an astonishing scale. What is he supposed to do with _this_?

What he _wants_ to do is gather Jesse up out of his beer cans and carry him, if need be, back to the med bay, dress his wounds and put him to bed. But it wouldn’t do either of them any good. It wouldn’t change a thing. He has to _say_ something. He has to say _something_.

So he says the only thing he can think of.

“You’re not wrong.”

Jesse opens his eyes.

Gabe sighs, rubs a hand over his weary face. “For people like us it really doesn’t seem to matter where we go or what we do,” he continues, “bad shit follows.” He drops his hand, looks toward the cigarette still burning on the ground. “It’s the nature of the beast, I guess,” he says softly, “and you got into it real young, Jesse.” He lifts his gaze to Jesse’s face. “You got into this shit real fuckin’ young and it’s gonna stay with you. Can’t change that now.”

Gabe watches knowingly, painfully, as Jesse’s shoulder’s shudder, as he tries to quiet the gasp of a sob by covering his mouth with a shaking hand.

“And I’m sorry _mij_ —oh—oh fuck it! I’m sorry _mijo_ ,” Gabe sputters, suddenly angry, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. “I’m sorry you don’t got any better options than to hang around here with us, gettin’ shot at and losin’ arms. It’s a crock of shit, it truly is.”

Jesse’s looking at him now, tears stopped, hand lingering below where his mouth hangs open in confusion, alarm.

“But shit-heap that it is, you’re _here_. And while you’re here, it matters. All this—” he motions vaguely towards Jesse, the room, the base, himself, “—it matters. The shit that happens to you matters. _Here_. You’ve got a job to do and people to do it with and some kinda cause to fight for, even if it ain’t the cleanest.”

Jesse’s leveled his gaze with Gabe’s, mouth still hanging open. A lingering tear slips down his face unnoticed.

Gabe stares him down hard. “And we’re gonna take care of you, ok? Best we can. I’m not just gonna leave you here drinkin’ at 0300 and we’re not just gonna leave you to fuck off without an arm. It matters. I ain’t got much to offer you in the way of company benefits, but at least you got people lookin’ out for you. People _really_ lookin’ out for you, kid. It matters. We’re gonna get you what you need. You got me?”

“I—” Jesse seems, again, confused. Stunned. He nods, stutters, “I—uh, y-yeah. Okay.”

Gabe nods. “Okay.”

Without explanation, he goes to Jesse’s side and slips his arm behind Jesse’s back, tugging Jesse’s good arm over his shoulder. Jesse adjusts himself to facilitate, and when Gabe counts to three they rise together.

Jesse leans nearly the entirety of his weight on Gabe, his knees all jelly, feet sloppy and uncoordinated as Gabe kicks the fridge door closed with a rattling of stray cans and starts to pull him from the room. Jesse puts his chin in his chest, his head slopping from side to side, mumbling, “Ooooh. Head rush.”

Gabe huffs a laugh but, as he does, Jesse starts to slip from his grasp just in time to bash his injured arm into the door frame. Jesse shouts and Gabe just says, “Jesus!” and pulls him tighter, taking on even more of his weight as they stumble forward.

“Damn kid,” Gabe scoffs as they make very, _very_ slow progress down the hall, “this ain’t eight-beers drunk. What else did you put away before I found you?”

“Well,” Jesse’s sweating from pain and exhaustion, but the mischievous smile on his face is genuine, “I only wen’ lookin’ fer that beer cause I ran outta whiskey.”

“Sweet shit,” Gabe laughs. “You better sober up real quick boy, or Angela’s gonna honest-to-god kill you. She’s gonna be pissed off enough that you’re bleedin’ again without knowin’ it’s because you went on a binge. Especially after all the work she put into your surgery.”

“Shiiiiiiiiit, yer right.” He looks real serious as he leans so heavily on Gabe he almost knocks them into a wall. “Sh’ll tan m’ damned hide.”

“Hell yeah she will. Good luck, _mijo_.”

Jesse turns his still red and puffy puppy-dog eyes up to Gabe. “You—you ain’t gonna help me none?”

“Wha—” Gabe glares down at him with every ounce of indignation he’s ever contained, “ _what the hell’s it look like I’m doin’ you ungrateful little shit!”_ If he had a free hand he would have smacked Jesse right across the back of his head. “Screw sobering up, I’ll just fuckin’ _tell_ Angela and you can fend for your goddamn self.”

“Aww, Reyes, c’m on! Y’ ain’t gotta throw a guy unner the bus like tha’“

“I sure as shit do _, cabrón._ Gotta teach you lessons somehow.”

They argued all the way back to the med bay, argued while Gabe helped Jesse out of his clothes and back into the hospital gown he was supposed to be wearing, argued while Gabe made him drink two entire glasses of water and half of a third before Jesse threatened to puke, argued while Gabe gave him the smallest dose of a pain-killer they could manage to pair with all that alcohol, argued right up until the moment Jesse just couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore and Gabe had to pull Jesse’s blanket up over him as he passed out, already slobbering onto his pillow.

Gabe didn’t tell Angela about the excursion, but she found out anyway seeing as Jesse was teetering between the stages of still-drunk and about-to-be-hungover when she woke him just a few hours later. Angela actually had some harsh words for a thoroughly sleep-deprived Gabe that same day, and so, when Gabe went to see Jesse later that afternoon, it was mostly to continue to argue.

“You gotta shout so much, _jefe_? I _am_ a patient here.”

“ _I’ll show you a patient you little_ —”

Still, when Gabe went back to his office afterwards, he immediately began moving money around so they could get this stupid, cocky kid the best goddamn arm money could buy.


End file.
